


This Whole Damn City Thinks It Needs You (But Not as Much as I Do)

by vellaphoria



Series: Running (and when to stop) [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Gotham is a hellhole of a city that is allergic to positive political change, Gratuitous italics, M/M, Something like a Character Study, UST, misuse of official communication channels, politically complex hostage situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 05:55:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12205200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/pseuds/vellaphoria
Summary: Four years after leaving Dick on top of that building, Tim has finally stopped running from Gotham and her Bats.Six months into their newly reformed partnership, a hostage situation brings the two vigilantes to the same rooftop that all of this started on.Maybe it’s time for Tim to stop running from something else, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [The Best You'll Never Have](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11686056) and [Catch and Release](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11687619)
> 
> Title is from "The Last of the Real Ones" by Fall Out Boy.

Tim swivels in Bruce’s chair, his weighted cape flaring out as he turns from entering their patrol route in the Batcomputer.

He almost immediately wants to turn back around.

Because this? This is going to end _so badly_. And if Tim is a witness, _he’s_ the one who’s going to get blamed for any resulting injuries.

Why Bruce decided that destroying the League of Assassins elevates someone to ‘adult supervision’ status, Tim will never know.

It’s for _mostly_ responsible reasons that he doesn’t turn back around, that he keeps staring straight ahead at the slow-motion catastrophe about to make his night just that much more difficult.

On a bench by the storage lockers, Dick is balancing on one arm, attempting to use gravity, fine muscle control, and a single hand to shimmy into the Nightwing uniform.

Regular clothes? Sure, Dick could pull this off in his sleep. But all that spandex and Kevlar is skin-tight, and getting it on ( _or off_ ) is a job for at least two hands.

Or, just two hands. That’s it. Tim doesn’t need the mental imagery of more than that.

Dick calls this a _training exercise_.

(Tim calls it _harassment_ and blatant disregard for basic decency. Because even if the older vigilante _is_ wearing under armor, that stuff leaves little to the imagination, and watching Dick undulate while holding himself upright with a single arm? Not exactly conducive to a calm, focused patrol.)

But, blackmail is something of an art in Gotham, and if Oracle’s taught him anything, it’s that a perfect opportunity should never, never be passed up. With a quick reach toward the security feed, he hits the _record_ button in anticipation of when it all goes horribly wrong.

Which it does. Spectacularly.

Alfred probably heard that crash from upstairs.

The side of Tim’s boot stops the roll of an errant smoke pellet. He raises a single, incredulous eyebrow at the newly redecorated floor.

“Are you done?” He asks. Which, really, Tim should know better.

“Tim–my.” Dick says, lying in the mess of spare supplies that his dismount freed from an open locker, sprawling a little too artistically for this to be entirely incidental. Tim sighs and shuts off the recording device. He knows where this is going.

In a few minutes, this will be more incriminating for _him_ than for Dick, and it would be best if he only has to erase one set of footage before Oracle checks their system.

Still. He doesn’t get out of the chair – he isn’t giving in _that_ easily.

“Aren’t you going to help me up?” Dick asks, shifting gears from a cloying, mock-petulant whine to a dark, low rasp that – at least to Tim’s ears – has distinct undertones of _I know_ exactly _what I’m doing and doing it on purpose._

Someday he’d like to run a few experiments on how Dick can be one of the nicest people he knows _and_ such a sadistic bastard … when he isn’t too busy reminding himself of _exactly_ why going over there is a horrible idea.

It’s a losing battle. Tim has had a _long_ time to develop a resistance to Dick’s puppy dog eyes, but science has proven that there is no known cure.

He rises from the chair, sweeping the cape behind him with a nearly Batman-worthy flourish, and walks to ‘help’ the older vigilante up.

More than likely this is going to end with him caught in Dick’s octopus hold and subjected to cuddles until it’s time for patrol, never mind that he’s almost twenty and _way too old for this stuff._

But it’s _Dick_ , and Tim has always had trouble telling him no.

And, well.

Dick’s banter and easy smiles are a long time coming. Like the way he ruffles Tim’s hair and the younger vigilante _lets him_ , or the simplicity in planning a patrol together and knowing that they’re _partners_ again, even if it’s a constant exercise in communication and being better than their past mistakes.

It’s been a long time since Dick went back to the blue and black, longer still since Damian started successfully training with Bruce.

Since Nightwing chased Red Robin to San Francisco and refused to leave Titans’ Tower until the younger vigilante agreed to _come out to the common room and just_ talk _to him_.

From there, it was phone arguments, strained apologies, and dropping in _entirely uninvited_ on Tim’s missions until they finally had it out in the middle of a European forest, surrounded by unconscious ninjas. They ended up bruised and bleeding at the foot of a cliff, laughing like idiots as they held each other up.

Bat therapy at it’s finest.

Coming back to Gotham together, the air between them was lighter than it’d been in years, was like something out of one half of Tim’s wildest fantasies.

If only the price of their renewed friendship wasn’t subjecting himself to _the other half_ of those fantasies on a regular basis.

Six months into their partnership, he walks toward where Dick is sprawled in a shameless spread-eagle on the floor, half out of his uniform. It is not necessarily an infrequent sight.

When Tim stops, standing over him with a resigned expression, Dick reaches up, making grabby hands at him. Sunlight has nothing on that smile.

Tim’s sigh is longsuffering. He reaches down to prolong this farce.

Dick’s hands are still bigger than Tim’s, and their grip is unrelenting. Tim wants to say he’s surprised when a quick tug of their interlaced fingers overbalances him, sending him sprawling across Dick’s broad chest, but. No.

Arms wrap around him before he can reorient himself, pushing Tim’s torso and face into all that spandex under armor.

For a second, he has to remind himself that it’s a good thing Dick’s mostly covered in the stretchy, black material. If there were no barrier between Tim’s not-yet-gloved hands and Dick’s bare skin, who knows what he would do?

(Tim knows exactly what he would do.)

“Hi Timmy.” Dick smiles up at him with a suspiciously innocent expression.

“Dick,” Tim says. The name is beautifully ambiguous.

And that appears to be the end of it, because Dick seems to be perfectly content to hold him prisoner despite the lack of conversation.

It’s… nice. Sort of.

Nice in a way where Tim’s enjoyment of it is, for the most part, extremely inappropriate.

Dick is a very physical person; he thrives on touch and affection. There is a _reason_ he’s widely known in the cape and cowl community as world champion of the octopus hold. And he does this to everyone, but certain parts of Tim’s anatomy just don’t _get_ that.

So, even if Tim is wearing a jock to protect himself from inevitable embarrassment, it would be in everyone’s best interest for Tim to extract himself from this situation as quickly as possible, preferably without seriously injuring Dick.

Or leaning down those spare few inches and shoving his tongue down his throat.

The first of which is entirely impossible, while the second option is extremely inadvisable, to say the least.

Tim lets his head fall against Dick’s collarbone, resigning himself to his captivity.

Dick just hums happily and shifts to accommodate his Tim-sized blanket.

“You’re too tense.” He says, in a way that sets off warning bells in Tim’s head. Under the cape, an ungloved hand starts massaging circles into his back.

It feels… really good, actually. He melts into the pressure and heat of it, muscles going loose when fingers dig into a tight knot by his shoulder blade.

He hadn’t even known it was there. Sometimes it’s scary how well Dick knows Tim’s body.

Dick’s hand trails down his spine, using leverage and Tim’s compromising position to rub the tension out of Tim’s shoulder blades. Dick may have a gold medal in not letting other vigilantes escape these cuddle sessions, but he has at _least_ a silver in massages. The hands tracing Tim’s back pause for a moment at his sides. Two thumbs press into his lower back, pushing him into a small forward arch. Forcing even tighter contact with Dick’s chest.

Face still shoved into the juncture of Dick’s neck, Tim has to bite back a moan before he can embarrass himself further.

This is exactly how Dick’s going to kill Tim one of these days.

It’ll probably even be an accident

And … somehow he’s completely fine with that. Tim didn’t think he’d live past seventeen anyway, so he’s had a pretty good run, all things considered. And if he could _pick_ a way to die–

“Hey, Tim?” Dick cuts into that thought. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask to you about–”

Across the cave, a sharp, repeating tone goes off on the Batcomputer.

Considering their respective positions at the moment – not to mention whatever it is that has Dick sounding _anxious_ – Tim doesn’t think he’s ever been more grateful to hear the Cave’s alert for priority messages. Bruce may have awful taste in alert noises, but it _is_ saving Tim from his imminent demise.

_Here lies Timothy Jackson Drake, CEO of Wayne Enterprises and freelance vigilante, finally done in by his pathetic inability to avoid prolonged contact with Dick._

_Pun absolutely intended._

The mental image of Bruce seeing _that_ gravestone is enough for him to force a laugh real enough to convince Dick to loosen his hold, pushing himself up and walking back to the Batcomputer to take the call.

Behind him, suspicious-sounding shuffling ensues. But that’s a bit of a constant with Dick, so Tim does his best to ignore it.

He sighs when he sees the ID flashing on screen, but he’d get more shit for ‘accidently’ dropping the call, so.

“Damian. What’s up?” Tim asks, forcing the strain in his voice to only be a _little_ audible.

It’s not that they still try to kill each other whenever they’re in the same room. Like with Dick, he and Damian have worked at improving their relationship, if only because Gotham’s criminals tend to laugh when the good guys do the job for them.

But.

Tense is still a descriptor he feels comfortable using to describe these check-ins. Too much potential for criticism, arguments, or any number of things that tend to set at least one of them off.

It’s been getting better lately, but there is a _reason_ most of their reconciliation attempts take place out of costume. And, at least for Tim’s side of this eternal conflict, that reason basically amounts to…

“Drake.” Damien bites his last name out like a curse word. “You are running late. As usual. But your lapse in competence is to my benefit, so this time I will choose to overlook it.”

Tim isn’t going to dignify that with a response, only partially because it’s entirely Dick’s fault.

Though his ‘lapse in competence’ _has_ made them late enough to catch Damian’s heads up for the hostage situation at City Hall. Admittedly, seeing the footage before running head first into this sort of thing is usually pretty helpful, even if Damian’s attitude (and – he’s sat through enough Alfred-mandated conflict mediations to know – his own standoffishness) isn’t.

From his side of the split screen, the current Robin seems to be trying to look at anything _but_ Tim. Which is fine with him. Whatever the little demon’s sees that’s so amusing gives Red Robin a few minutes to sort out his plan of attack.

Damian seems content to leave him to it, addressing the room at large beyond where Tim is standing. “Grayson. Try not to hurt yourself… more than usual.” Was that a _snicker_? He didn’t think the kid was capable of such things.

Tim glances back, just to make sure Dick isn’t about to get himself killed, but the man is 'casually' leaning against the lockers with that faux-innocent expression.

But at least the floor is clear again, so Tim is going to go against his better judgment and not question it.

“Barring any _complications_ ,” He sends a prolonged glare at Dick to let the other vigilante know _exactly_ how this is going to go if they end up running any later, “we’re good to go. See you downtown.” If that sound is Dick trying not to laugh, someone is going to die tonight. Because Tim will kill him, no matter how good he looks in that uniform.

Damian grunts, giving an affirmative nod as he shuts down the call. Behind Tim, Dick has moved over to the bikes, only prepping the electric blue one since it looks like they’re stuck together tonight. Stuck _close_ together; that seat isn’t big and Nightwing is far too fond of hairpin turns.

If Alfred ever actually sets up an exasperated sigh jar, Tim is going to lose lot of money.

He transfers the details form Damian’s report to his wrist tool, and gets ready to brief Dick en-route.


	2. Chapter 2

 Same roof, same gargoyles. Different costume. Damn his past self for finding ways to ruin his current stakeout.

Red Robin perches in the shadows just out of view of Oracle’s cameras and resolutely doesn’t think about the last time he and Nightwing played rooftop tag. It’d be easy enough to fall back into it, to tap into his sense-memory of warm arms and compromising positions; the way that – no.

He blinks rapidly behind the domino to dislodge the thought. City Hall. Hostages. Code _round robin_ – thank you, Steph, for that horrendous pun – tonight they’re all in. There is an ocean, a year working for Ra’s al Ghul, and a missing spleen between him now and the scrawny kid that only wore one R.

Tonight, there’s no time for sparring and further near-mortification.

Tim tells himself it’s probably for the best.

The roof has a decent, if not necessarily optimal, vantage point of City Hall. Though there is a slightly better view from the shorter roof two buildings to the left, the angle of this one shields them with Gotham’s perma-dusk, cloaking the rooftop in shadows. And, it’s history notwithstanding, Red prefers _this_ roof, if only for the vantage point it has on the roof with the best view of City Hall.

And, not coincidentally, it gives him an unobstructed line of sight on the lookout stationed on said roof. Clearly whoever is holding up the government building was smart enough to place a lookout but inexperienced or cocky enough to pick an obvious roof.

Or they just don’t have easy access to grapple lines.

Maybe both.

Two roofs to the left, far more visible than he thinks he is, the lookout is too engrossed with watching Commissioner Gordon’s police line to pay attention his flank. The ashes of his cigarette die a quick death as he stubs it out in the steadily growing pile of ash on the rooftop’s accommodating railing.

A single ember rolls away from the pile, falling down into Gotham’s streets, spare feet from the outskirts of the GCPD encampment. Despite being the lookout for a stunt like this, especially one being pulled in a city notorious for its vigilante activity, the man doesn’t even bother to look up.

“Amateurs,” Nightwing whispers, close enough that his breath ghosts across the shell of Red’s ear. He shivers, though night is warm.

It isn’t that Nightwing is _suddenly_ behind him, either; it’s just that he’d gotten so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he’d forgotten how close he was. Really close. Like, _one arm slung around Red’s shoulders, crowding his space to try and grab the binoculars_ close.

Red shoves them over.

Nightwing takes them one-handed, not bothering to release his grip on Red’s shoulders.

His muscles are stiff, held rigid beneath the warmth of Nightwing’s arm. He will _not_ lean into it. With a not insignificant amount of effort, Red wills his focus away from their positioning and back to the _other_ problem at hand.

He raises the hand not trapped between him and Nightwing to tap the communicator in his mask, double checking the setting to make sure it’s keyed in to the _round robin_ frequency.

“Hey Batgirl,” he says, switching the output setting so Nightwing can hear her response, “How’s the west side looking?”

The radio buzzes with a steady, static thrum for a solid minute before she opens the channel with a sharp exhale and the sound of something – or, more likely, _someone_ – hitting asphalt.

“It’d be better if these assholes hadn’t tried jumping me. They aren’t even _with_ the kidnappers,” another thump, this time against something metal, “How ‘bout you? Take care of that lookout yet?”

If, from their vantage point, Red and Nightwing can’t see Batgirl kicking ass in all her eggplant-colored glory, then the lookout doesn’t stand a chance. Red gestures to Nightwing for the binoculars, only glaring a little when his partner holds them up for him rather than handing them over. He leans forward to look through the lenses anyways.

Beneath them, the man has lit another cigarette. He seems to be in it for the spectacle more than as any sort of effective early warning.

“Just checking in first. We’ll approach after he’s down.”

The silence lasts a beat, and Red suspects she’s muted her frequency to give voice to a few choice words. By the time she’s unmuted it, her frustration has worked its way down from ‘literally owing Alfred ten dollars in swear-jar quarters’ levels to a disgruntled groan.

“Oracle had me here _half an hour ago_ , guys. I don’t know _what_ you were getting up to in the Batcave, but –”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“ _But_ ,” Batgirl ignores him, “when short stuff said you were late, I didn’t think he meant _this_ late _._ ”

“ _Hey_ ,” Red says, but stops. Somehow _‘it’s Nightwing’s fault’_ doesn’t seem like a valid excuse to him, even though they all know the dangers of being ambushed by an Olympic-level octopus hold. “We’re here _now_ , so lets just get on with it.”

“Pfft, _fine_ ,” Batgirl says, punctuating her exasperation with the sound of her fist acquainting itself with the face of another goon. “B’s about to make his dramatic entrance. How’s the east look?”

They seem to have front row seats to the disaster in progress that she can’t see from the other side of City Hall. But _someone_ has to watch the front of the building, and their delayed arrival was effectively the short straw.

Red reaches a hand up to redirect the binoculars at the building’s main steps. Nightwing keeps one hand on them, to Red’s slight annoyance.

“Hmm. Woman with a megaphone. Guy Fawks mask, body armor looks military issue. No names or insignia, so whoever is behind this isn’t _that_ reckless, but…” Red pauses, nudges Nightwing’s arm until he readjusts the view again. “She’s got some heavy-looking work boots. Not built for running, but those steel toes will make for a mean kick. So she either came looking for a fight or she really _is_ an amateur.”

Next to Red, Nightwing activates his communicator.

“ _Or_ she expects to control the situation well enough to stop a coordinated takedown,” he says, eyes trained on the plaza covered in flashing lights and GCPD hostage situation units.

“As long as Robin has the side entrance covered, we should be good to go,” Red says, glancing at the south side of the building. The street is mostly deserted, with the exception of a few officers placed to capture anyone trying to escape the main barricade.

Though he’d stayed silent for the rest of the conversation, _that_ seems to be enough to get Robin going.

“Of course I have it covered, _Red_ Robin. Just because _some_ of us do not use the official channel for _inane chatter_ , does not mean we are as incompetent as you would like to assume.” Robin snarls over the channel, but not as venomously as he could have. From the reaction alone, Red assumes his side isn’t seeing nearly as much action as he would like.

He sighs. Despite the relative civility of their earlier conversation, it looks like it’s going to be one of _those_ nights.

But that doesn’t mean he’s above responding in kind.

“We all know you get grumpy when you’re out past your bedtime, _Robin_ , but I’m sure that if you use the magic word, someone will tuck you in and read you a bedtime story when we get back,” Red says, smirking against the shadows of Gotham’s night.

Nightwing digs a disapproving elbow into his side.

“Do _not_ test me,” Robin hisses, practically seething from Red’s commentary, “I _will_ scale the building you are on and –”

“Boys, boys,” Batgirl interrupts, overriding their budding argument, “save the dick-measuring contest for later. We have hostages to save.”

Stephanie _has_ always been the most practical of them.

Next to him, Nightwing is chuckling, no doubt constructing at least six awful puns in his head. Red tactfully ignores it to avoid a fate worse than death.

“Red,” she asks, “after the dramatic entrance, what’s the plan?”

Crisis averted, he turns his attention back to the issue at hand.

The woman has a megaphone in her hand, and a treatise in her head: political corruption, resignation of Mayor Hady, and restitution for Gotham’s poorest.

She also has an AK-47 and a building full of hostages.

Inside, Red can just barely make out a row of kneeling people and more guns held by masked people.

Must be Monday.

Sometimes he wonders why Gotham can’t be more like Metropolis; he’s pretty sure Connor’s only ever had to deal with peaceful protests that, unlike the few that happen in Gotham, generally result in some sort of positive change.

But here, there’s little hope of that. If he were to look up the Gotham Gazette’s archives, he could go _years_ without seeing a headline that didn’t involve something potentially resulting in loss of life or Bruce Wayne’s latest hookup.

Not that those things were always mutually exclusive.

So, staging a hold up just to get someone to _listen_? Red Robin _gets it_.

The thing with hostage situations that don’t involve money or the Rogues Gallery is that they’re just normal people: Average citizens that Gotham chewed up and spit out until they hit their breaking point.

Tim isn’t Dick, who never spent his childhood in a single place for more than a month. He isn’t Damien, who came to them desperate and brainwashed by the League. He isn’t Jason, who grew up on the worst of Gotham’s streets.

Tim has never had to worry where his next meal was coming from, has never really wanted for anything. Hell, privilege aside, his childhood was _normal_ , for all intents and purposes. Closest to Bruce’s, if anything, though Tim’s trauma came later.

But he’s seen the worst the world has to offer. He’s been undercover with Ra’s assassins, dismantling human trafficking rings from the inside out. He’s watched innocent people executed for nothing more than speaking out against corrupt governments. He’s spent years working in a corrupt city in a corrupt country and he would have to be _blind_ not to see how Gotham is rotten down to her core.

The poor keep getting poorer, more businesses and public officials than Red Robin cares to count are in the pocket of organized crime, and no matter how many times they lock the same people away in Arkham or Blackgate, the city is never, ever safe.

But these problems are systemic.

Taking hostages and kicking Hady out of office won’t solve this city’s problems any more than dressing up as a bat and scaring petty criminals into submission.

Batman has always dealt with the symptoms, not the causes.

That’s what Bruce Wayne does; the designer suit and tabloid-worthy womanizing are as much a costume as the cape and kevlar.

(And maybe, just maybe, Tim will sometimes admit that Jason has a point about engaging in crime to control it; Batman doesn’t need to know that when Red catches Hood dealing with some of his shadier projects, he looks the other way.)

But right here, right now? This sort of hold up has a tendency to become the spark that will launch the city into weeks-long riots if it’s handled badly. A lot of people are going to get hurt, and no points for guessing that the ones ending up in the hospital won’t be the same people responsible for Gotham’s constant decay in the first place.

Red lowers the lenses and starts with the basics.

“Violent protestors, probably fans of Bane if that speech is anything to go by,” He glances to the side as Nightwing nods in confirmation. “The woman out front _isn’t_ a distraction – this is meant to send a message. She’s confident, not dressed to make a run for it. Means they’re either new at this or their security inside is better than it looks. My money’s on the first option.”

“An easy op?” Nightwing asks, “Get the drop on them and free the hostages?”

He hides it well, but his mouth is twisted like he _opinions_ about the situation but doesn’t really want to go against Batman’s strategic prerogative.

The question is, more likely than not, only to give him something to say. Or maybe to make sure Red has all the angles covered, still testing him even though he ‘graduated’ from the single R years ago.

“Not so much,” Red says, stashing the binoculars. “Look at the crowds on this side of the GCPD barricade; they’re agitated, listening to what the woman down there has to say. There have been three major protests in as many weeks around Gotham’s major government centers; this is the natural culmination. Elections are far off and corruption is up. It’s a powder keg. Not to mention Batgirl’s _guests_ …”

“Speaking of,” Batgirl cuts in, sounding like she’s still in a fight, “these guys just keep coming. I don’t know what you’re planning, Red, but you might want to account for _company_.”

Red nods, mostly to himself. Recalibrates for an unknown number of third-party hostiles that they don’t have a good vantage point on.

“So, what? Think we can defuse it?” Nightwing asks, arm still resting across Red’s shoulders. Neither of them tries to move it off.

“Too far gone for that – the second we go in, this thing goes even further south.”

“And, like you said, the crowd is on edge. That risks a riot,” Nightwing says it like he isn’t sure that’s bad thing, though Red _knows_ he knows the risks to that kind of uncontrolled mass movement.

“Which is why,” Red holds up a hand, “we give them what they want. Hady won’t resign – not even for hostages – but his approval ratings are abysmal. He’s one recall election from getting thrown out of office. I propose we accelerate that process.”

Years in the cape have taught him what a domino mask looks like with one eyebrow raised. Nightwing’s face, natch, but Red is making a point here.

“We _know_ he’s crooked, even if we don’t have the evidence. But I know where we can find it. There’s a lockbox behind the knockoff Degas in Hady’s office; got the tip from Ra’s a while ago.” Nightwing narrows his eyes at that one, but Red pushes forward.

“We take whatever we find and re-lock the safe behind us. We get the materials to the Gotham Gazette while B deals with the hostages, and by the time it breaks tomorrow, there’ll be enough public evidence to force the city legislature to motion for impeachment if they want to salvage their political careers.”

Nightwing nods, sharp and sure. “Stopping the situation from escalating and sending a warning to the other corrupt politicians without actively endorsing hostage taking to get similar results. Pretty sneaky, Red.”

At the compliment, Red turns the color of his namesake.

“Exactly. Getting rid of Hady is a short-term solution, but it’ll buy us enough time to do something about it outside of the masks. It’s damage control at best, but I pulled things like this a few times when I was working for –” Tim pauses, train of thought coming to an emergency stop.

“I’ve done it a few times before. It’ll work.”

He knows from his expression that Nightwing is letting that slip by without comment.

The arm around his shoulders tightens. “Always two steps ahead, Red.”

Lies.

Like Nightwing wouldn’t have come to the same conclusion, given the same shady information sources.

He’s about to say as much when Nightwing turns his head, ducking down until he’s almost talking against Red’s jaw, right under where his cheek has colored so far past a blush that it isn’t even funny.

Something flutters in Red’s stomach as lips brush against his skin.

“Certainly helps that you’re always so _observant_ ,” Nightwing says. Red can _feel_ that smirk.

And that.

Um.

He’s not really sure _what_ to make of that. Any of it. The inflection was a bit weird, even for Nightwing. He turns his head a fraction of an inch. What…?

“We should get going though,” Nightwing says. Red forces his mind to snap back to the present as Nightwing pulls away, hand reaching for a line. “Don’t want them to start without us.”

And then he’s jumping off the side of the building, heading for the lookout’s blind spot to get into position for the ambush.

When he finally gets to his feet – head still reeling from whatever _that_ was supposed to be – his legs complain vehemently at staying crouched for so long.

Red stands there for a moment, staring out into the Gotham skyline.

It’s going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this got a little further into the weeds with Tim and his politics than I'd originally planned on getting, but I stand by the character interpretation. 
> 
> If you want to scream with (or at) me about a bunch of dorks running around in spandex and punching things, you can find me [here](https://vellaphoria.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

The man doesn’t go down screaming, but that’s only because Red Robin has a gloved hand clamping his mouth shut.

What he _does_ do is struggle, but with the arm Red has around his neck, the guy can’t get enough oxygen to his muscles, can’t get the strength to shove a shorter than the average vigilante, not-even-twenty-year-old off.

To be fair, and Red _loves_ to be fair when it benefits him, he _was_ trained by the foremost purveyor of vigilante violence and pseudo child soldiers on this side of the planet.

But he’s getting ahead of himself.

The man goes down, almost-deadweight, and Red cushions the landing to keep the takedown quiet. He’s grabbed the guard on the upper level – the one circling the atrium-wide indoor balcony that makes up City Hall’s rotunda.

More experienced hostage-takers would have placed at least two guards up here to keep watch, preferably more. But these guys?

The city _is_ a powder keg. If they screw up this operation, they’re going to be trying to suppress a crime wave for the next few weeks.

But _these_ guys. They don’t know how to fight. They don’t know how to plan an op. They must be both mostly-untrained, working class people _and_ the luckiest bastards on the planet to have gotten this far.

Red would give them an A+ for intention.

But for planning and execution?

Automatic F. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

_He_ is bored out of his mind but, unless these guys step up their game, Robin is going to go back to the cave with too much energy and will probably destroy some of the Batcave’s training equipment through overuse. And Batgirl might help him. But Red hasn’t budgeted for that kind of loss, and he isn’t sure that, this late in the fiscal year, their replacement fund would be able to cover it.

He can’t really blame them though. If this doesn’t get interesting, Red will just stay up until this time tomorrow working out his frustration by writing new code for his safe house security systems. Or trying to come up with a compound more effective and less addictive than caffeine. Or hunting down some of the inevitable smuggling operations at the docks and beating _those_ guys up because _come on._

He just wants a _fight_ , already.

Which is, of course, the moment everything goes horribly, predictably wrong. Later Red will consider this particular instance of Murphy’s Law to be empirical, peer-reviewed evidence that the universe hates him, specifically, and is a massive jerk.

Because the second the distracted guard goes down, Batgirl is coming in over the coms with, “Hey, guys? That _company_ I mentioned? Headed your way – get ready for a fight, there’s a lot of ‘em.”

Red isn’t even sure where to _start_ with that. Unfortunately, Robin beats him to the response.

“Why am I not surprised that _Fatgirl_ couldn’t take care of some simple, back alley criminals?”

“You little–”

“ _Ladies_ ,” Nightwing cuts in, “we have more important things to deal with at the moment. Batgirl, how many? Robin – any eyes on B and that dramatic entrance?”

“ _No_.” Robin snarls, followed by the sound of someone’s arm being dislocated. Probably not Robin’s; wherever he’s gotten off to, he’s found _someone_ to beat up.

“I count twenty. Thirty?” Says Batgirl. Over the com line, it sounds like she’s running. “Ballpark twenty five – I’m coming in behind them.”

Red peers over the edge of the rotunda; no sign of them yet. But the west side, where Batgirl was fighting, is the back of City Hall, and they’ll have to work their way through the offices to get to where the hostages were.

He flips his communicator from _receive_ to _transmit,_ “Batgirl – you said your _guests_ weren’t affiliated? Any guesses on who they are?”

“Nope!” She says, as cheerily as if he’d just asked her if she had been picked for jury duty. “Doesn’t matter really, so long as they end up unconscious and zip-tied.”

“ _Fine_.” Red sighs, but only a little, and proceeds to tie off a line on the rotunda’s railing. This is going to take some creative tactics. Smoke pellets? Check. Taser gun? Check. A growing level of frustration liable to lead to some fractured skulls and broken ribs?

Triple check.

“We go in on my signal – surprise them from all angles at once.”

When the interlopers burst through to the atrium, the guards aren’t even facing the right direction. Wrapped up in their apparent leader’s oration, they’re swept under as the tide of opportunists floods through the room.

What follows is _chaos._

Far below Red, fists start flying. The tied-up hostages try to scramble out of the way, unable to escape their restraints. Batgirl bursts through seconds later and cracks two of the fighters’ skulls together.

“What did I just say!” Red yells through the com. It isn’t a question.

Batgirl just laughs. “Too late!” She yells back, and proceeds to knock one of the guns out of one of the hostage-taker’s hands before kicking him where it counts. He goes down, hard. Red suddenly has a greater appreciation for the necessity of reinforced jockstraps in the vigilante business.

Robin follows her, breaking through from wherever he’d been terrorizing people and launching himself into the fray.

“Looks like you’re outvoted on this one. Sorry, Red.” Nightwing’s voice comes over the line. Conciliatory, but not sounding _too_ sorry. The whoop he gives as he jumps down from the second floor straight into the center of the storm just underscores the whole thing, really.

Insult. Injury.

Red sighs, muttering the first under his breath as he makes his own flying leap down with the intention of causing the second.

He lands straight on a man wearing dark, inconspicuous clothing and trying to get a handgun out of its holster, knocking him down and turning the momentum into a roundhouse kick that takes out a woman charging them with a metal pipe. He crouches low when one of the Guy Fawkes masks goes flying where his head would have been.

From his vantage point, he sweeps out the legs of a pair of brawlers and starts to make his way to some of the hostages. Caught up in the fight, Batgirl and Nightwing are a little too busy for the distraction. And Robin likely wouldn’t bother until they’ve neutralized all hostiles.

They have the rest of it covered, and Tim can get through this sort of thing unnoticed, when he chooses to.

Weaving around punches and disarming a few people on the way, he makes his way to the first hostage. The man is trying desperately to break the zipties ringing his wrists with little success.

They fall off easily enough with a flick of one of the spare batarangs he carries in his utility belt. He points the man in the direction of a gap in the fighting and the guy thanks him before making a run for it, disappearing into the warren of offices that make up the back of City Hall.

Five more hostages follow, waiting for Red to point them through the safest paths to the non-warzone areas of the building. The police will sweep them up, hopefully before they get caught in the fighting again.

“Got the hostages,” Red says over the com, getting a few grunts of acknowledgment. “I’m going after those files – cover my six.”

“Got you –” Nightwing. He’s the closest to the stairs and engages a baseball bat-wielding protester to clear the way to them. Red darts around where Nightwing is dodging wild bat-swings, looking for an opening big enough for a nerve strike, and makes a beeline up the stairs.

Just in time, too. The last hostage must have gotten clear of the building, because the next second, the glass of the front door _shatters_ and GCPD officers come pouring through. Still only a three-way fight, probably. But he wouldn’t put it past a few of their officers to take a swing at the city’s resident vigilantes if the opportunity presents itself.

Also, it’s only breaking and entering if you get caught. Which, considering the general ire the GCPD holds for costumed vigilantes, would put a significant damper on Red’s plans for that incriminating information.

If anyone – cop, protestor, opportunistic yet unidentified criminal, or otherwise – notices him break away from the action, they don’t follow him. He makes it up the stairs uninterrupted, and sprints through the nondescript hallways to Mayor Hady’s office.

It isn’t too hard to find – the thing is well-appointed, even by Gotham mayoral standards. The desk and furniture is designer. The walls are covered in fake – yet convincingly so – paintings. The rug probably costs more than some of the ones he’s seen in Ra’s tenth best guest rooms. By most people’s standards, those are still expensive enough to not actually be the insult Ra’s probably means them to be.

There was a scandal about a year after Hady got into office because he’d used public funds to pay for the re-design. He’d grumbled something like ‘if the secretary of Housing and Urban Development can do it, so can I,’ and his connections in the legislature and Gotham’s more well-funded interest groups let him sweep the whole thing under the –

Well, under the rug, so to speak.

But if Red scuffs the grime from his boots into their pristine, tenth best guest room weaves, that’s his own business.  

He finds the Degas without issue, ballerinas being a dead giveaway, and feels along the edges for the subtle hinge connecting it to the wall. It’s well hidden, small enough that he has to take off his glove to feel the difference between hinge and wall.

It swings forward soundlessly, well-oiled, revealing a safe.

Not a complicated safe, either. It looks like it was put in around the last time the building was fully renovated, and is probably older than Red.

He tries not to take it as a personal insult, and sets about disengaging the lock.

It takes an unsatisfyingly short amount of time. He might have even been able to crack it in his pre-Robin days. Despondent, he tries to focus on what he came here for in the first place and pulls out his flashlight to illuminate its contents. Files. Paperwork. A bottle of brandy. A piece of jewelry he recognizes from the Gotham museum’s precious stones and antiquity display.

He frowns, and makes a mental note to get Bruce to ‘interrogate’ Selina about that one.

Several minutes and rifled-through safe later, he finds what he’s looking for; the ledger containing the accounts receivable records for Hady’s office – _and_ the second one listing payoffs from Gotham’s three biggest gangs and their final destination: Hady’s personal, private bank account. Offshore, otherwise untraceable, and un-taxable.

Unhackable, too, since the bastard is either smart enough or old enough to not keep electronic records when he knows some of the country’s best hackers are active vigilantes in his city.

The only thing between him and these books has been exactly _where_ they were, but Ra’s really came through on this one.

What Red is going to owe him later is an entirely different question, but it’s also one he doesn’t quite care to think about at the moment. He already knows it will be appropriately degrading, of dubious morality, or both. Probably both, knowing Ra’s.

Resigned to his fate, Red replaces the rest of the paperwork where he found it. No need to draw Hady’s attention to the theft, after all.

He has the books in hand, and is about to close the safe when he hears it.

Not the sounds of distant, ongoing fighting. Not even footsteps. Just –

A single click.

The safety on a handgun being thumbed into the off position.

There shouldn’t be anyone in here. He hadn’t _heard_ anyone come inhere.

Red freezes, ice in his veins.

“If you’re smart, you won’t move a muscle.” Thick Gotham accent. Female, probably. Hints of vocal fry. “Hands in the air, pretty boy. You know how this works.”

Why is _that_ the nickname they always jump to? Of all the –

“Now!”

He does what she says. He’s only wearing a domino – and his hair isn’t exactly bulletproof. The books go up with his hands, held above shoulder level. It doesn’t mean he isn’t calculating the exact angle he needs to elbow the air out of her lungs and knock that gun across the room.

“However you think this is going to go down,” Red says, voice turned to mechanical gravel by the suit’s vocal modifiers, “trust me, it isn’t. Put the gun down and walk out of here; no one has to get hurt.”

He isn’t expecting her to listen. They never do.

Predictably, the barrel of the gun touches the back of his skull. Less predictably, she laughs; low and bitter, sounding exactly like a woman who thinks she has nothing left to lose. For all Red knows, she might not.

“Heh, _‘No one has to get hurt.’_ What’d you do, rip that from a crime procedural? Real fucking original, Robin.”

“Red.”

“What?”

“You’re looking for someone else. I’m _Red_ Robin.”

It doesn’t give her pause enough for Red to use it as an opening to more physical hostilities. Unfortunate, really, since that’s usually one of the few benefits of having the same vigilante name as a chain of restraunts.

“Like I fucking care,” she says, aggravation building in her voice. “A pig’s a pig no matter what spandex you wrap it in.”

“ _Rude_.” The gun jams closer to Red’s head. “Ok! Shutting up.”

It reveals more than she means to, though. The shove feels like her weight is on the foot closer to Red, rather than the one farther away. Sloppy gun handling.

“ _Good_. Now, you’re going to–”

She doesn’t get any farther than that. Before she can squeeze the trigger, Red ducks and spins, pushing back and unbalancing her. Startled, she lets go of the gun easily, and he clicks the safety back on, pulling out a taser gun and fitting the proffered weapon as best he can in the newly freed holster.

On the floor, the woman is sprawled back, propping herself on her arms. Though he hadn’t seen her face, she has the same hairstyle as the woman with the megaphone. You don’t see many people around Gotham with dye jobs _that_ intense who aren’t Harley Quinn. And the texture’s completely different.

Either she lost the mask, or she _lost_ the mask. Part of him hopes she manages to dye her hair more inconspicuously before someone _else_ makes the connection.

She moves to get back up.

“Don’t try it.” Red says, pointing the taser gun. “I _will_ fire. You _will_ be knocked unconscious. And I _will_ leave you here for the police to arrest.”

One of these things is not, strictly speaking, true. Tasers aren’t the most accurate weapons. If one of the needles misses, it won’t work. She’s wearing a heavy jacket, which makes it less likely that he’ll get a hit.

But – only one in five civilians usually considers that.

She seems surprised enough that, for the moment, she isn’t one of them.

The woman stays sitting, scowling up at Red.

“And you think you’re _protecting_ this city?” She spits, glaring.

“Something like that.”

The woman scoffs. “But who do you actually _help?_ This city is a hellhole – and you’re running around in equipment that looks like it’s worth more than I make in a year. You _cooperate_ with the police – the same ones who lock people like me up just for speaking out against the system.”

Red coughs. This is, clearly, going to go nowhere fast. But he has time. “You _were_ holding hostages at gunpoint,” he says.

“What, you think we didn’t try _other_ way first? Hah!” It isn’t an amused sort of laugh.

“I’ve lived in this city my entire life, been protesting how fucking corrupt it is for more than half of that. _Peacefully._ Same as my mother, and _her_ mother. Same as half this rotten fucking city. And do you see any change? Any improvement? _Fuck no_. It only gets worse. We complain, and the people in power ignore us, or, worse, they _laugh._ And everyone else is so fucking concerned with the next time the goddamn Joker escapes from Arkham that no one cares about the day-to-day shit that’s been going down in this city for decades. What is your vigilante ‘justice’ going to do about that? Nothing.”

She moves to her knees, sneering. Her head is level with the barrel of Tim’s taser.

“So, yeah, we took hostages. But you’re here, aren’t you? Violence and power are the only currencies that matter in Gotham, and the former is the only way for people like me to get the latter. _You_ being here proved that well enough. We spoke, and you did nothing. We took hostages, and now you listen. Too late for us, but you’re listening all the same.”

Red narrowed his eyes. “And the riots that could result from this? Do you think _that_ would be _justice?_ What about the people who _will_ get hurt in those? They won’t be the one’s you want hurt; they’ll be people like you. And it’ll be left to people like _me_ to stop it.”

“How fucking arrogant _are_ you?” The woman laughs, loud and sharp. “Doesn’t matter. _Justice_ doesn’t matter. This? This is _revenge_. The city will boil in its sins, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Go and protect the establishment, pretty boy. With armor as expensive as yours, it’s certainly protecting _you_.”

It’s the kind of response that would have had Tim’s high school teachers telling her that _there’s a lot to unpack here_. Maybe before calling a parent teacher conference to discuss how some kid is _toing the line_.

And there are things Red _wants_ to say.

_This is only my night job_ , for example. _I run a charity helping get kids off the streets that gives them money for the education to get out or to stay and make a difference._

It would probably sound like an excuse, to her. But it doesn’t really matter either way. He’s just a mask, here, and it’s called a _secret_ identity for a reason.

Red takes out the handgun and re-holsters the taser. Testing a theory, he shoots the wall of Hady’s office. It doesn’t end up with a new, projectile-induced dent.

Empty.

He raises an eyebrow at the woman. Her glare doesn’t shift.

Red sighs. Batman is going to kill him if he ever bothers to show up.

He puts the gun on the ground between them and turns back to the safe, closing and re-locking it. When he turns back around, the woman looks more surprised than anything.

“Next time, keep your weight on the leg farther away from whoever your point it at. Makes it harder to disarm you.”

Her surprise has morphed into full blown shock, but has regained its strong undercurrent of disdain.

“Two options,” he says, walking to the window and breaking the lock, “you can stay here and get arrested, or you can do something that might actually amount to _substantive_ change. Option two, and you walk out of here a free woman, only one string attached.”

She grabs the gun and holsters it but doesn’t seem inclined to answer him. Won’t look at him either.

“I can’t let the rest of your group go; the GCPD doesn’t even officially acknowledge most of us _exist_. I _can_ let you walk out of here with _this_ ,” he gestures to the books; one cooked, one not.

“And, if you’re so inclined, you can bring them to bring them to the Gotham Gazette. Give them to Vicki Vale, and you’ll have Hady on the front page tomorrow, being mostly credibly accused of corruption. Just add water, and you’ve got enough going for you to get him kicked out of office. Probably.”

He opens the window, checking the ledge to make sure its wide enough for a civilian to realistically shuffle across.

“Or you can hold onto them and blackmail him yourself. I hope you go the first route, personally; I owe a distressingly ambiguous favor to a megalomaniacal eco-terrorist for this information, and I’d hate to see it disappear if Hady’s people get to you before you get to him, but.”

Red pauses, leaning on the windowsill.

“It’s up to you, I suppose.”

The woman pushes to her feet, squinting at Red like she isn’t sure _what_ to think of that.

Which is fair. Red doesn’t quite know what to think either. Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t _actually_ plan out everything he does in a day _or_ pre-write his lines.

They just stare at each other for a solid minute. Two, maybe. After a while, he wonders if she’s going to stay here and get arrested after all.

Then she crosses the room with a barely restrained fury and rips out the books out of Red’s hands. He doesn’t fight her.

“ _Fuck you_.” She says, leveling him one last glare and stepping out of the window, careful to avoid touching anything that might hold a fingerprint. Red watches her disappear down the ledge, into the night and away from the cops.

You can’t win them all, he supposes.

A shadow detaches itself from the office’s doorway. Spandex a shade darker than the shadows cast about the unlit room. It claps, slowly, giving his performance a low whistle.

“I was wondering how long you were going to stand there,” says Red, closing the window, not bothering to pretend the lock hadn’t been broken.

“I knew you had it covered,” Nightwing says, holding open the door. “Come on, Commissioner Gordon wants to yell at us for a few minutes.”

Red’s expression is as deadpan as he can make it. “The highlight of my day,” he says, but he follows Nightwing out of the room anyway.

The arm around his shoulder is expected, but it’s still kind of nice.

“Nope,” Nightwing says, smirking, “ _that_ would be movie night. Which you promised me over a month ago. No backing out, now.”

Red groans, trying and failing to knock Nightwing’s arm off his shoulders. He backs Red up against the wall, pinning him. The spandex is thin enough to leave little to the imagination.

“Come on, Red.” His smirk has grown to practically Cheshire proportions. “It’ll be _fun_.”

Red alternates between trying not to blush as red as the paneling on his uniform and trying not to run for the hills. He _has_ to be doing this on purpose. And good things never come of trusting Nightwing that something is going to be _fun_.

Besides, a movie night would have all that time _alone_ and in _close quarters_ and that’s _exactly_ how Red gets certain horrible _ideas_ , and –

Nightwing just presses closer, uncaring of Red’s very sensible aversion to exactly this sort of thing. It would be _so easy_ to just lean forward that last bit and –

Nope, not going there.

Red twists out of the hold, turning just a hair too slow to miss Nightwing’s disappointed expression.

“ _Fine_ ,” he sighs, and Nightwing lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree.

He sees the tackle masquerading as a hug coming before Nightwing even knows he’s going to do it, and dodges behind him too fast to be caught.

“Nope!” He yelps, jumping back to avoid the second lunge. “Gonna have to catch me first!” And Red books it down the hall, making for the stairs to the atrium where the rest of the team should be doing damage control with the GCPD.

In Red’s book, that’s as good an excuse as any. He’ll tell Batman what happened, make his excuses, and try to duck out before Nightwing actually _does_ manage to catch him.

But if he does –

He’s been avoiding Nightwing’s proposed movie nights for _months_. Because he isn’t kidding about the _close quarters_ thing. Like, the ‘the safehouse only has a couch and Nightwing will inevitably insist they both sleep on it’ kind of close.

Red doesn’t think he would survive that, and Tim _knows_ he wouldn’t.

He chances a look behind him. Nightwing is only steps away, chasing him down the hall at full speed.

Red bursts through the doorway, back onto the rotunda where he started, and makes a leap for it. Nightwing, he’s sure, is close behind.

Close to catching him.

And Red –

And _Tim_ isn’t certain he doesn’t want him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, the next chapter will feature a rating change. If you're not following this for the inevitable, now is your chance to get off the smut train.

**Author's Note:**

> I realized that this has been sitting around my hard drive for a few months - to all two people following this series, thank you for your patience and sorry that this thing still isn't done :P
> 
> If anyone is wondering where the next chapter of Deadfall is, it's coming! Eventually - between this semester and an uncooperative muse, writing is a bit difficult at the moment. But, as always, stay tuned for more!


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